The Missing Wife Page 8

  The apartment overlooked a small garden, where a variety of flowering shrubs partially obscured a kidney-shaped swimming pool. I’m going to be living in an apartment with its own pool, she told herself. I’m lucky. Really lucky.

  ‘… paying for a cleaning service,’ she heard René say as she stepped back in from the narrow balcony. ‘It is embarrassing and inefficient. No. No. Yes. No.’ He finished the call.

  Imogen turned to him.

  ‘I am very sorry,’ said René. ‘We have had a problem these last few weeks with cleaning staff. You’d think jobs were growing on trees. They keep leaving.’

  ‘Could it be you’re not paying enough?’ asked Imogen.

  ‘I agree that it is not the best-paid job,’ said René. ‘But we pay the legal wage. I’m sorry,’ he repeated. ‘I will get someone here to clean this for you as soon as possible.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Imogen. ‘It’s fine the way it is, and it won’t take me long to go over it.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I’ll do it myself, honestly. It doesn’t matter …’ Her voice trailed away as a thought occurred to her.

  ‘I appreciate your consideration, Madame Weir,’ said René. ‘Nevertheless—’

  ‘Nevertheless, I have a question,’ she said slowly. ‘I know it may seem strange to you, but … but …’ She couldn’t ask. He’d think she was crazy. But did it matter?

  She cleared her throat and spoke rapidly before she could change her mind. ‘Monsieur Bastarache, you said you were in need of cleaners. Would you employ me?’

  ‘You!’ He stared at her in astonishment. ‘I really do not think—’

  ‘I’m here for the entire summer,’ she said. ‘I need a job.’

  ‘But you are a client. And you have paid already for the apartment.’

  ‘The thing is,’ she said, ‘I’m making some changes in my life. I need to work. I’ll happily clean apartments or holiday houses if you think I’m suitable.’

  ‘I do not think you are a cleaner.’ René looked at her sceptically.

  ‘I’m perfectly able to clean, and clean well,’ she said.

  ‘But you have not worked as a cleaner before?’

  ‘Actually,’ said Imogen, thinking of the Villa Martine, ‘I have. It was a long time ago, but I assure you I know how to clean a house.’

  His expression remained dubious.

  ‘You could give me a trial,’ she suggested. ‘A week. If it doesn’t work out, there are no hard feelings.’

  ‘You are a member of the European Union?’ asked René.

  ‘I’m Irish,’ replied Imogen, ‘so of course I am.’

  ‘You would work for the minimum wage? And not a fixed contract?’

  ‘That’s OK. I’m not here for a fixed time. But I’ll give you plenty of notice before I go,’ said Imogen.

  ‘This is … unusual,’ said René.

  ‘Not really,’ said Imogen. ‘I’m sure you regularly have people doing part-time cleaning work for you.’

  ‘Well yes, but—’

  ‘It would be great for me,’ said Imogen.

  ‘Some days would be very long,’ said René.

  ‘I don’t mind hard work.’

  ‘Let me think about this,’ said René. ‘I will call you.’

  ‘I don’t have a phone,’ said Imogen. ‘But I can get one.’

  ‘You will need a phone,’ he said. ‘It is an essential part of working. I need to be able to contact you.’

  ‘I’ll buy one now and come back to you with the number,’ Imogen told him.

  ‘All right.’ René was still doubtful. ‘I will think about it further. I cannot be definite in my answer yet. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ said Imogen and shut the windows.

  Although she’d intended to get the most basic pay-as-you-go phone possible, she ended up with an inexpensive smartphone. There might be times, she acknowledged to the sales assistant, when she’d need to access the internet. Besides, it wasn’t linked to any of her old phones or contracts, and nobody would have the number unless she gave it to them. Weirdly (and a bit worryingly, she thought), she felt more settled with a phone again, even though it had been cathartic to throw the Irish one away and she’d felt more and more free every time a piece of it ended up in a service station bin. Having a new phone made her feel connected with the world around her, which on balance was probably a good thing.

  She returned to the estate agency and gave the number to René, who assured her that he’d call her later. Deciding that she was on a good-luck roll, she decided to have a celebratory coffee at one of the seafront cafés before going home. She repeated it to herself a few times. A coffee before going home. A coffee before going home. And each time it seemed a little more worth celebrating, even if a cup of coffee was hardly pushing the boat out. Carol had always enjoyed celebrating good news, but over the years, Imogen had become more circumspect. Things that had appeared promising at first had often turned out not to be quite what she’d expected. She’d learned to be more moderate in her celebrations. But the demitasse of coffee and the chocolate square that the waitress brought her were rich with luxurious flavours and seemed to Imogen to be a perfect celebration of the success of the Plan so far. She sipped the coffee and gazed towards the sea.

  The wide expanse of beach was a rainbow of coloured sun umbrellas, and the sea was full of people, many of whom appeared to have hired kayaks and were paddling furiously across the water. She suddenly remembered walking down from the Villa Martine with Carol and the Delissandes boys. Her mum had been carrying a picnic basket and a beach umbrella and the children had all brought an assortment of beach toys. They’d been singing ‘Alouette’, another French rhyme, each one chiming in with their part as required, before the previous person had finished. And afterwards Carol had taught them ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat’, which was the same sort of song. They’d sung it lustily as they tramped along the road. Had that been the day Oliver had pushed her into a hole he’d dug on the beach so that she’d wailed that she’d broken her ankle? (It was actually only a sprain and was better before nightfall, but Lucie Delissandes had fussed over her and made her a hot chocolate drink to help with the healing process.) Or had it been the day they’d buried Charles in the sand and run away telling him that he’d drown when the tide came in? Poor Charles had screamed and shouted after them as they’d laughed as his terror. So it wasn’t always sweetness and light back then, she reminded herself. And I could be quite horrible when I chose.

  Her memories were difficult to pin down, and yet they were still there, like faded photos in an old-fashioned album. But today they were clearer than ever before. And even if some of them were less than perfect, they were all of easier times.

  Maybe everything seems easier looking back, she thought as she finished her coffee. Maybe it’s simpler to think that the past was lovely and straightforward when I know perfectly well that it wasn’t. Because nothing ever is. And perhaps Vince is right about me. Perhaps I specialise in fooling myself. Perhaps I’m doing it now.

  It wouldn’t be the first time.

  She went back to the hotel. She hadn’t checked out, as she’d already paid for six nights and she reckoned she might as well have the flexibility of the room. She climbed the stairs and looked at the clothes hanging in the wardrobe. A meagre selection, she thought, and none of them really suitable for the summer. She packed them into her bag, along with her toiletries, and went downstairs again.

  ‘You’re leaving now?’ The receptionist was aghast. ‘There is a problem?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Imogen. She explained about the apartment.

  ‘You will be staying here the whole summer?’ This time the woman was surprised.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How nice for you,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’m sorry, it’s probably too late to get a visitor for your room. I cannot refund you.’

  ‘I understand.’ Imogen nodded, although she reminded herself that she couldn’t carry on b
ehaving as though she had an unlimited source of income when she was living on the edge as far as money was concerned. She’d never really been broke before. She wasn’t sure she knew how to manage it.

  The sudden shrill tone of the phone in her bag beside her made her jump, her heart beating so quickly that she thought it might explode. There was only one person with her number, she thought as she took it out. And that person wasn’t Vince Naughton, so there was no need to get into a flap. But her ‘hello’ was tentative, and at the other end of the line, René Bastarache had to ask if it was Imogen who was speaking.

  ‘Yes, yes, it’s me,’ she said.

  ‘Well look, I’ve chatted with Angelique, my partner, and she says to go ahead and give you a trial. So if you come to the office tomorrow morning, you can start.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ said Imogen. ‘Thank you so much, René. I mean, Monsieur Bastarache.’

  ‘Too late to call me that now,’ he said. ‘You can stick to René. A bientôt.’

  ‘A bientôt,’ she said, and waited for her heartbeat to slow down again.

  She was about to wheel her bag out of the hotel and start the walk to the apartment when Samantha, Gerry and Joel came into the reception area.

  ‘You’re not going!’ Samantha looked shocked. ‘We haven’t had our night out together yet.’

  Imogen explained that she was leaving because she’d rented an apartment for a few weeks.

  ‘What a brilliant thing to do!’ cried Samantha. ‘And how lucky you are to be able to do it! But were you planning to walk there now? With your case and everything? Don’t even think about it. Gerry will drive you.’

  ‘It’s not that far,’ protested Imogen. ‘Fifteen minutes at the most.’

  ‘You don’t want to have to walk dragging a case behind you,’ Samantha said. ‘It’ll only take a couple of minutes in the car. And you must come out with us tonight. You have to celebrate.’

  ‘You know, I really don’t want to intrude on your holiday.’

  ‘You’re not intruding. And if I were you, staying for the whole summer, I’d be celebrating like there was no tomorrow.’

  Imogen smiled at Samantha’s enthusiasm.

  ‘At least have a drink with me before you go,’ said Samantha. ‘Gerry will put your bag in the car.’

  ‘I …’

  But Gerry had already picked it up and was walking towards the car with it. Imogen shrugged and followed Samantha into the hotel garden, where they sat at a table in the shade. Joel peeled off his T-shirt and shorts.

  ‘No diving!’ cried Samantha, but her words were lost as he jumped into the pool. ‘Kids,’ she said to Imogen. ‘You love them, but they spend their lives tormenting you.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ Imogen asked where they’d spent the morning.

  ‘Kayaking,’ said Samantha. ‘There was an event on at the beach. Great fun.’

  Imogen nodded. ‘I was down there earlier and saw lots of people on the water.’

  ‘You should give it a try if you haven’t already. It’s really enjoyable. They had a kids’ section today, which Joel loved.’

  ‘He’s pretty fearless, isn’t he?’ Imogen glanced at the pool, where Joel continued to ignore the signs about diving into the water.

  ‘You know what they’re like at that age.’

  Imogen remembered her mother saying the same thing to Lucie Delissandes when Charles came home with an egg-sized bump on his forehead. He’d been freewheeling his bike down the lane near the house, hit a stone in the road and shot over the handlebars. Lucie had been distraught at the sight of her son’s injury. Carol had been remarkably unfazed.

  Or had it been Oliver who’d come off the bike? wondered Imogen. She wished things were clearer in her head. But it had all happened such a long time ago, it was surprising she remembered anything at all.

  Gerry came out to the garden and asked Imogen if she wanted to leave for the apartment now or if she was planning to stay at the hotel for a little longer.

  ‘I think it’s time for me to go.’ Imogen stood up. So did Samantha.

  ‘What do you think about that dinner tonight, Imogen?’ she said. ‘It would be nice to celebrate your decision to stay on for a while. I’ll book the restaurant I mentioned before and we can meet here at seven thirty.’

  ‘If you’re sure I won’t be in the way,’ said Imogen.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Gerry. ‘We love meeting people on holiday.’

  ‘In that case it would be great, thank you.’ Imogen gave Samantha a quick hug before following Gerry out to his car.

  ‘You’re very kind to give me a lift,’ she told him as she got in. ‘I could have walked, honestly.’

  ‘I’m sure you could,’ said Gerry. ‘But there’s no need. OK, which way?’

  She directed him to the apartment building.

  ‘Nice,’ he said when they arrived. ‘Looks like a big house really.’

  ‘It used to be,’ she explained.

  ‘Would you like me to pick you up this evening?’ asked Gerry. ‘The restaurant is within walking distance of the hotel, but it’ll be a bit further for you.’

  ‘Oh, please don’t worry,’ said Imogen. ‘I’m happy to walk.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’ Gerry gave her directions, then got out of the car and took her bag from the boot.

  ‘Thank you so much again,’ said Imogen. ‘I’ll see you both later.’

  She pulled her case up the flagstone pathway and opened the door to the building. At the top of the stairs, she took a deep breath before unlocking the apartment.

  Home, she thought as she stepped inside and looked around. This is my home, at least for the next three months. I can arrange the furniture whatever way I like. I can come and go as I please. I can read whatever books I want to. I can cook anything I want to cook, drink anything I want to drink. I can go to bed at eleven or twelve or one – it doesn’t matter. I’m here. I’m home. And I make the decisions. She felt intoxicated by the sense of freedom.

  She opened the shutters on the windows and stepped on to the narrow balcony. A man was doing energetic circuits of the pool while a couple sat on a pair of sun loungers, chatting intently. Imogen watched them for a moment and was about to turn back into the apartment when she heard footsteps on the balcony next door. She felt herself tense up until she saw a young woman, her blond hair in plaits, leaning over the wooden rail as she drank a bottle of water.

  ‘Hi,’ said the woman, looking straight at Imogen.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘English?’

  ‘I speak English,’ said Imogen.

  The young woman beamed at her. ‘I’m Nellie. I’m here on holiday with my sister.’

  Imogen couldn’t remember how long it was since she’d spoken to so many complete strangers. There was a certain intoxication in that too.

  ‘Imogen,’ she said, as an almost identical blonde appeared beside the first.

  ‘Becky.’ The second blonde introduced herself. ‘We’re twins, though you might have guessed that! Australian. Cycling around Europe.’

  ‘All of Europe?’ asked Imogen.

  ‘We started off in Croatia,’ said Nellie. ‘Then we came through Austria and Germany to Italy before getting a ferry to Barcelona.’

  ‘Wow.’ Imogen looked at them in awe. ‘That’s amazing. You must be super-fit.’

  Nellie laughed. ‘We didn’t cycle all the time. Some of it was by coach.’

  ‘It’s still impressive,’ said Imogen.

  ‘And you?’ asked Becky.

  ‘Oh, I’m staying here for a few weeks.’

  ‘In that case, we’ll see you around. We could have drinks together some evening.’

  ‘That would be great,’ said Imogen, thinking that it was years since she’d had so many invitations to drinks. ‘I’ll see you around.’

  She went back inside the apartment. Maybe that’s what I should have done, she thought. Got on a bike and kept going. But despite the fitness classes with Shona, she didn
’t think she’d have the legs for Europe by bike.

  She unpacked her bag and hung her clothes up again. She knew she’d have to spend some of her cash on more stuff. But given that it was the summer, she hoped she’d get by with some cheap shorts and T-shirts. Despite the flurry of drinks invitations, it wasn’t like she’d be socialising that often, so there was no need for skirts or dresses or high-heeled shoes. She thought of her shoe collection in Dublin. Vince had encouraged her to buy heels. Until then, she’d mainly stuck to wedges and ankle boots. And to be fair to Vince, she’d grown to like the heels too. But apart from the court shoes she’d worn to the exhibition, she’d left them all behind.

  She spent such a long time luxuriating in the solitude of her apartment that she squeaked in dismay when she eventually looked at her watch and realised how late it was. She thought about phoning the Hotel Atlantique and asking them to tell Gerry and Samantha that she couldn’t make dinner after all. Being honest with herself, she didn’t really want to go. She’d just been unable to say no. And yet she felt it was important to do something normal and ordinary. She dithered over the choice of staying in or going out, changing her mind multiple times before telling herself that she’d made a commitment and that Gerry had been decent in driving her to the apartment and it would be very rude not to turn up.

  She arrived five minutes late, hot and slightly breathless, with the beginning of a blister on her toe because she’d worn the court shoes and they weren’t really designed for hurrying. She knew that in her navy suit skirt and a plain white T-shirt she didn’t look remotely holidayish, even with the multicoloured bead necklace and matching bracelet that had been a Christmas present from Shona the previous year, but it was the best she could do. She hadn’t bothered with any make-up other than the tinted lip salve she always wore.

  Samantha, in an elegant floral dress and cherry-red espadrilles, linked arms with her as they began to walk to the restaurant.

  ‘Where’s Joel?’ asked Imogen.

  ‘We have a child-minder for him this evening,’ Samantha said. ‘The hotel organised it. She’s a local girl and highly recommended.’

  ‘He’s OK with being left on his own?’

  ‘They’re having a room-service dinner.’ Gerry, a few paces behind, joined the conversation. ‘He loves room service. It’s his favourite thing. And afterwards he’s going to watch some Disney on his iPad.’